


Wise Men Say (Only fools rush in)

by AnUnreliableWriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Cowboys with feelings, Fishing, Getting Together, Horseback Riding, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Pinkertons, Slow Burn, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 21:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16879974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnUnreliableWriter/pseuds/AnUnreliableWriter
Summary: -but I can't help falling in love with you)______"What in the deep seven hell's is all this racket?" Arthur groused loudly, letting every inch of irritation he felt seep into his voice. The group parted and he found himself standing near Dutch and Hosea on his left. A loud muffled voice drew his attention. Arthur blinked down blankly at the curled up form of Albert Mason tied up and gagged near Bill and his horse."Mason?"





	Wise Men Say (Only fools rush in)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cantdrownmydemons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantdrownmydemons/gifts).



> I wrote this after an acquaintance pointed out that the dialogue between Arthur and Albert sounded something straight out of a fanfic. A was very surprised to see the tag at least existed by the time I posted it. 
> 
> Anyway enjoy...

Arthur woke up with a start, blinking at the bright sun glaring into his eyes. He groaned. He missed the canopy of trees that had hung over their old camp in Valentine. Sitting up he rubbed at his eyes, reluctantly chasing away the last vestiges of sleep.

A cacophony of noise grabbed at the edges of his consciousness and Arthur suddenly had an idea of just what exactly had woken him up. His mouth pulled down in an unpleasant scowl. If it was Bill and Lenny antagonizing each other again he’s going to do the Pinkertons a favor and end both of them, regardless of how much Dutch liked having the younger literate man around. Bill’s voice boomed and Arthur followed the noise. Most of the camp had gathered around the clearing where the horses usually graze. A flare of irritation flashed across Arthur’s features as he approached them. Tilly shot him a small anxious smile, but was wise enough not to stop him.

“What in the deep seven hells is all this racket.” Arthur groused loudly, letting every inch of irritation he felt seep into his voice. The group parted and he found himself standing near Dutch and Hosea on his left. A loud muffled voice drew his attention. He blinked down blankly at the curled up form of Albert Mason tied up and gagged near Bill and his horse.

“Mason?” He said surprised. Terrified brown eyes met his, the accompanying body stilling slightly at the familiar sound of his voice. The self-proclaimed nature photographer looked worse-for-wear, his usually immaculate clothes covered in a fine layer of red dust. A mumbled shout strained through the fabric tied around Mason’s mouth, that could either have been ‘help’ or Arthur’s name or some variation of both. Either way the sound made something that wasn’t irritation stir inside Arthur’s chest.

“You know this man, Arthur?” He had stepped forward to help the photographer, but stopped short at the wet sound of Hosea’s voice. Any other time Arthur would have been concerned at the indication that the older man’s condition was getting worse, but right now he was more concerned with Mason. The old man stood patiently, his hands at his side. Dutch had his arms crossed next to him.

“Found ‘em lurking in the woods with one of those _photo-gra-phy machines_ ,” Bill interrupted, his mouth twisting around the unfamiliar word. He took a threatening step towards Mason, the latter cowering up tighter, “Could be dangerous.”

Mason shook his head vigorously.

“The only danger he is, is to himself.” Arthur stated. Mason nodded his head. He walked past Bill, deliberately knocking his shoulder against Bill’s. The large man snarled, but backed off at the hand Dutch held up. Arthur stopped behind Mason’s back.

Instead Bill settled for another jab, a snarl twisting his features, “Could’a been takin’ photographs of the camp and sendin’ ‘em to the damn law.”

Mason shook his head again fervently.

Arthur ignored Bill, looking between Dutch and Hosea he said, “The man takes photographs of wild animals for a journal or somethin.” He waved his hand to where Mason had gone back to nodding his head vigorously. He stooped down behind Mason, looking at Dutch, before untying him. Mason scrambled up as soon as his hands were free, pulling the gag out of his mouth. Arthur moved down to cut the ropes off his feet.

“Arthur!” Mason cried, a shaky-half sob stuttering from the man’s lips. Arthur shifted uncomfortably, awkwardly resting a comforting hand on the other man’s shoulder. He held his hand there while Hosea sent the others away, till only Dutch, Hosea and Kieran were left. The latter trying his best to coax Brown Jack into following him. The big horse stomped its hooves stubbornly, refusing. It didn’t really matter considering the rest of the camp still stood close enough to eavesdrop like a gaggle of nosy church ladies. Arthur sighed silently, helping a shaky Mason to his feet with a gruff 'there we go'. He lifted Mason’s bag from where it hung on Bill’s saddle then sent the horse on its way with a firm pat on its hide, much to the relief of Kieran. He handed the bag to Mason. The man took it gratefully. He was still obviously upset at the turn of events his day had taken, but relaxed slightly as soon as his hands made contact with the soft leather of his bag.

“Thank the heavens you were here, Arthur.” Mason exclaimed, standing closer to said man. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to still the shaking in his hands, “I was unsure of the intentions of your- erm –compatriot.”

“Heaven having any influence over Arthur?” Hosea laughed, “I’m afraid that’s quite a bit impossible.”

Arthur rolled his eyes glaring in the direction Bill stomped off to, “Yup, he’s a mean one. Don’t worry he won’t do nothin’ no more.” Arthur turned his grey eyes back towards Mason regarding him with a curious expression, “What you’s doin this far out anyway?”

“Why taking photographs of course!” Mason perked up at the opportunity to talk about his work, his earlier fear fading away into the background “There’s alligator snapping turtles out in these parts you know.”

“Alligator Turtles?” Arthur said, not even bothering to hide his scepticism.

“Oh yes!” Mason continued, not at all bothered, “Paleontological looking creature, with the blessing of Hades’ spikes on his back and the jaw strength of-“

“Mister Mason was it?” Dutch interrupted a timbre to his voice that had earned him the reputation of a silver-tongued villain in the first place. Arthur had seen Dutch use it to charm ladies into giving over their pearls and men into non-violence, but it seemed to have the opposite effect on the photographer. Mason jumped, pulling his bag closer to his chest. It created an odd sort of mediocre barrier between him and the older man. Mason shot his eyes towards Arthur, looking like he’d prefer having the broader man between Dutch and himself.

Eventually manners won out and Mason stepped forward extending a surprisingly steady hand, “Forgive my rudeness. I never introduced myself, Albert Mason.” He said. Arthur refrained from pointing out that Mason hadn’t exactly come here on his own free will.

Dutch gripped his hand, smiling widely, but didn’t return the introduction. Instead he voiced his next question to Arthur, never taking his eyes off Mason, “May I speak with you for a minute.”

“Aren’tcya right now?”

Dutch smiled, his eyes tightening in a way that meant he was trying to be polite, but it wasn’t the time to act coy. Arthur nodded, following just behind and to the right of the older man.  
____

Hosea regarded the man next to him, “So how is it that you came to know our own Arthur Morgan here?” Hosea asked, ignoring the rattling inside his chest. Instead he forced a kind smile on his face that seemed to finally put Mason at ease slightly.

“Well Arth- Mister Morgan happened upon me actually. He helped out with a small disagreement I had with a coyote near Strawberry.” Mason cut himself off with a small chuckle, clearly the memory was a fond one, “We’ve run into each other a few times since then.”

Hosea tilted his head slightly, studying the man in front of him, gauging for danger. For all the man’s nervous twitches and ticks, Hosea knew all too well how dangerous a seemingly timid man could be. He’s played the part himself after all, especially in his older age. Mason clutched his well-kept brown leather bag to his chest, his hands convulsing around the soft material nervously. The man’s eyes flickered from Hosea to over his shoulder back and forth.

Hosea followed his gaze over his shoulder to where Dutch and Arthur were talking. The former with a hand on the latter. Hosea and Mason watched them for a few seconds.

“What is it you do, Mister Mason?” Hosea asked breaking the silence. He didn’t turn to face Mason, but kept a watchful eye out of his peripherals. Mason did turn his head momentarily but faced towards Arthur again.

“I’m a photographer.” Unlike Bill, Mason’s voice flowed easily over the word, his mouth used to saying the four-syllable-word. Hosea relaxed his shoulders. Before he could question him further, Dutch and Arthur seemed to finish their talk and made their way back over to them.

Mason smiled, his hands stilling their movement as Arthur approached. Hosea watched intrigued when Arthur returned the smile from underneath his hat. Maybe there was more here than just coyotes and photographs.

“You alright?” Arthur asked, holding out a calloused hand.

“I’m quite fine.” Mason answered relinquishing his bag over to Arthur, “I apologize if I got you into some trouble.”

“Nah,” Arthur answered waving his apology away. He turned catching Kieran’s eye as the man passed by, “Get my horse saddled up so I can return Mr. Mason here from wherever our bullheaded companion pulled him from.”

“Y-yes Sir!.” Kieran exclaimed, already jogging towards the white Arabian. A few horses skittered out of the way, snorting and flicking their tails irritably. Arthur sighed rubbing at the skin between his eyes.

“What a nervous fellow.” Mason said.

Arthur snorted, a gruff sound escaping out of his mouth “You’re one to talk.”

“I resent that statement.” Mason interjected affronted, “I’ll have you know I’m quite a put together man.” Arthur levelled him with a gaze that disbelieved that. Mason laughed lightly, rubbing at the back of his neck, “When I’m not surrounded by rabid predators that is.”

“I bet you’s is.” Arthur said shooting a pointed look in the other man’s direction.

Mason met his eyes with a challenge of his own, “Well I suppose I shall just have to take you to town, maybe to a nice bar or play to prove it.”

Arthur pulled a face, “If you think there aren’t any predators in towns, I’m suddenly a lot more concerned about your regards to your own life.”

Hosea smiled watching the two men bicker as they made their way to Arthur’s horse. Mason’s former nervousness seemed to have disappeared, his hands gesturing widely in the air around them in a retelling of some kind most likely. Dutch’s boots came to a stop near him, disturbing the dust and stones.

“What do you make of that man, Hosea?”

“Not sure yet,” Hosea answered mildly. They watched Arthur lift Mason onto the horse behind him, laughing at something the man said, “But Arthur seems to like him, so that’ll have to do.”

Dutch hummed, disturbing the ground again as he turned his back on them then walked away. Hosea took his hat off, coughing into his sleeve. Shaking out his hat, he settled it back on his head, “It’ll have to do.”

__

“AH! Down here I’m sure of it!”

“You’ve been sure three times already.”

“Yes, well, it’s a bit hard to keep track of the direction you’re travelling when you’ve been thrown over a horse by a brute of a man.” Mason shot back, his voice a little miffed.

“Fair enough.” Arthur conceded, veering off the path. Mason’s arm tightened around his waist at the change of terrain. Arthur adjusted his form to account for the shift in balance, leaning back into Mason till the man copied his movement. He loosened his hold on the reigns trusting his horse to pick out the safest path down. Warmth spread through his shoulder where it still pressed against the other man.

“Interesting friends you have back there.” Mason stated awkwardly. Arthur’s tensed involuntarily, sensing this Mason hurriedly continued, “Especially the kind elderly man that kept me company.”

“Hosea.” Arthur answered, rolling his shoulders. He felt Mason nod behind him. The ground finally leveled out beneath them and Arthur shifted his weight again, noting the way the feel of Mason’s chest pressing against his back seemed to follow him. He didn’t know what to think of this information so decided to ignore it. Instead he piped up, a wry smile pulling at the corner of his lips, “Although if he heard you refer to him as ‘elderly’ he’d probably have your ass strung up so fast you wouldn’t even notice till it was done.”

Mason tucked his head in laughing. Arthur shivered at the feel of his breath ghosting across the back of his neck, “Somehow I don’t doubt that for a moment.” He said. They rode in companionable silence for a while, both men enjoying the warmth of the day. Arthur thought that was the end of the conversation till Mason spoke up again, a carefully neutral tone to his voice as he asked, “Any reason you’re camped out in the woods like a couple of outlaws?”

Arthur shifted again this time not due to a change in terrain. Angling his head over his shoulder he said, “Do you really want to know the answer to that?”

“I apologize, am I annoying you?” Mason asked. Arthur became acutely aware at the loss of warmth as the other man leaned back away from him.

“Didn’t mean it like that. Just that...” Arthur hesitated, but felt Mason lean forward a bit again and continued, “It’s best not to ask questions like that.”

Mason stayed quiet and Arthur worried that the man finally figured out that he wasn’t the gentleman Mason insisted him to be. The air around them fell silent again, a suffocating denseness surrounding them. Arthur focused on the ground in front of him, trying his best not to think about the unusual quietness from the man behind him. Mason had yet to jump down from the horse screaming so Arthur took that as a good sign.

“So about these Alligator Snapping Turtles I’ve been tracking.” Mason finally said, his usual airy tone floating between them, cutting through the tension “They’re a lot more ferocious than people think.”

A weight he didn’t even know existed lifted from his shoulders. Arthur dipped his head smiling, “Oh yeah?”

“I believe I’m in need of a little protecting, maybe from a dashing mystery man that’s a little rugged around the edges. Do you know someone like that?”

“I might.”

____  
“So what is it we’re doing out here again?” Mason asked, staring up at the canopy of trees. The most fascinating and colorful birds flitted from branch to branch in great swooping patterns. Maybe he’ll focus his next photographic series on the American Bird. Arthur would probably be glad if he chose a less deadly subject to focus on. He looked down to find said man’s piercing gaze watching him.

Arthur blinked, turning his head to the side, his voice a litter gruffer than usual “Well I’ve been doin’ all these tasks for you, I figured it’s about time you did something for me.”

Mason flushed at the feelings those words, in that voice incurred. He cleared his throat fiddling with the reigns in his hands. Arthur rode next to him on his white mare, Winters End. Mason rode on his own borrowed horse he got from the stable near Rhodes. The horse toed the edges of being considered elderly and it showed in the horse’s stamina. They’d barely ridden a few hours and the horse’s energy already flagged. Still it was the best he could manage when Arthur showed up outside of his Inn looking every bit like the rugged cowboy that had caught Mason’s attention in the first place. He must have pulled too hard at the reigns because the horse jerked its head, snorting violently. He smoothed down the reigns apologizing to the horse quietly. Mason could feel the weight of Arthur’s gaze on his person again and he belatedly realised he must have stayed quiet too long “What did you have in mind?”

“Fishing.”

“Fishing,” Mason knew some of the reluctance he felt had bled into his voice by the way Arthur rolled his eyes at him. He attempted to cover up his previous blunder by inquiring further, hopefully in a more eager tone, “Any particular fish you’re hoping to catch?”

Arthur led the way, off the main path, with all the grace and instincts that came with a man born to ride a horse. One of the many skills Mason admired in the other man. Arthur leaned forward, petting idly at his mare’s neck and said “Kieran showed me a good place to fish a few days ago. There’s some good largemouth bass.”

“Which one was Kieran? Have I met him?” Mason attempted to follow after Arthur, with the same grace he steered his horse. By the way the horse under him shook its head irritably he didn’t quite manage to do so.

Arthur nodded, “The nervous fella.”

“Oh yes I remember him!” Mason exclaimed moving just a bit too fast and nearly ending up falling out of his saddle. He managed to grab onto the horn, re-orientating himself in the seat more securely. He looked up to see Arthur staring at him amusedly,

“You have a bit in common with him.”

“How so?” Mason asked tilting his head to the side.

“You both are as skittish as a horse in a thunderstorm“, Arthur ignored his sputtered protesting and continued “An’ he also ended up at the camp hogtied and crying.”

Mason regarded him with a measured stare, “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

Arthur looked towards him something dangerous sparking in his eyes and a devilish smirk on his face, “The only difference bein’ that I was the one that had caught ‘im.”

If nothing else, that look alone should have been downright illegal, by the way it sent a flood of warmth through Mason’s gut. He shifted in his seat his mouth moving before his brain could catch up to it, “I think I would have preferred it to be you instead this time too.”

The sparkle in Arthur’s eyes intensified, the grey giving way to a bluer tint and his mouth pulled into a full grin, “That so Mister Mason?”

Mason sputtered burying his head in his hands, but there was no way to hide the red in his neck and face. Arthur laughed then, a booming sound instead of his usual reserved chuckle. Mason decided then and there the embarrassment was worth getting to hear that sound.

They finally reached the lake after a bit more riding. They hitched their horses to a nearby tree, leaving just enough slack for them to graze comfortably. Arthur led him over to a small crop of rocks jutting out from the bank of the river. He spent a couple long minutes, patiently teaching Mason how to apply the bait and cast the line into the water. If Mason had been a little too excited when the line sailed through the air, perfectly breaking through the water’s surface, Arthur didn’t say anything, only smiling at his childish glee. That was up until he had to replace the bait on his hook. Arthur sat on his hunches, Mason’s fishing hook held between his fingers on one hand and a cricket in the other “You could do this yourself you know. You did before.”

“Yes and it felt dreadful” Mason sniffed pulling a face. Arthur finished hooking the bait, straightening up Mason caught his eye, batting his lashes at him, “Besides, you do it much better than I ever could.”

Arthur shook his head a laugh escaping his lips, “You are something else, Mister Mason.” They spent a few hours fishing in relative silence. Every once in a while Mason would regale Arthur with a tale of his misadventures as a youth, most of them taking place in his college years, Arthur reminding him not unkindly, now and then, that if he jerked his line anymore he’ll chase every fish in the river away. Finally as the sun just passed midday they called it a day. Mason carefully made his way behind Arthur. The more sure-footed man picked his way over the wet rocks easily, Arthur glanced over to him “Careful, the water rose a bit higher.”

Mason nodded his hands spread out to his side, to help keep his balance. A thought streaked through his mind and Mason fought to keep the smirk off his face. Making sure the other man’s attention was on him, Mason stepped forward his foot sliding over the moss covered rock just enough to make it believable, he flailed his arms, crying out as if he was going to fall in. Predictably Arthur rushed forward intending to stop the photographer from meeting a watery fate. Fast as lighting Mason righted himself, grabbing the lapels of Arthur’s shirt and shoving.

“ _Son of a –_ “, The other man’s cry was cut short by a great splash. Mason cackled something terrible. Arthur’s head broke through the tension of the water, coughing and spluttering. Too late Mason noticed the dark look levelled at him, like an alligator striking, Arthur’s arms sprung out of the water, clutching at his shirt then yanking. Mason was a bit embarrassed to admit that his fall into the water was a little less dignified by the way he yelped a little too high.

____  
Arthur swept a hand through his wet hair, sparing a mournful thought for the loss of his hat. He’d liked that hat. Mason sputtered and coughed next to him, but seemed to be getting his bearings back again. They had spent a bit of time wrestling in the water like a pair of teenagers, fresh from doing summer chores and looking to cool off in the river’s waters. Arthur began undoing his buttons, unsticking his wet shirt from his body, where it clung like a second skin, “ ‘Least the suns out nice and warm.”

“Be that as it may, if we took a swim every time the sun was out, I fear we’d develop gills and fins of-“, Mason’s voice began suddenly cutting out with a strange choked sound. Arthur looked over his shoulder a flicker of concern on his face. He didn’t think he hurt the other man during their impromptu water fight, although there was always the threat of leeches, but Mason only stared at him. Or particularly his shoulders. Arthur’s eyebrow rose, “What?”

“What?” Mason blinked out of wherever he was. He met Arthur’s eyes and Arthur watched intrigued as a dark red flush creeped up from the photographer’s neck, staining his cheeks a rosy color for the second time that day. Mason cleared his throat turning his back fully to him.

“You okay?” Arthur asked, narrowing his eyes at the other man’s weird behavior. Well, weirder behavior.

“Peachy.” Mason answered, an odd pitch to his voice. Arthur crept closer, keeping his footsteps light on the foliage of the forest. The other man still had his back turned to him, shedding his water-logged vest. Mason turned, vest in hand and a word on his tongue, then jumped about a foot in the air to find Arthur standing practically glued to his back. He watched amused as Mason startled back, crushing the material of his vest in his hands. Arthur rescued the garment chuckling at Mason’s continued sputtering. He shook it out. Walking over to the tree he hung it up along with his own shirt.

“You are like one of those damned cats my Aunt owned.” Mason complained wiping his hands on his pants and grimacing at the cold wetness there. He sat down pulling at one of his shoes.

“A cat huh?” Arthur replied, an amused edge to his words.

“Yes. Feisty little things that used the roam the farm.” Mason answered pulling off the other shoe and placing it neatly next to its partner. “They’d always had a knack for creeping up on me. Used to sink their jagged claws into my ankles before I even noticed.” He paused from pulling off his sock here. He lifted his head staring off into the distance and an exaggerated shudder traveling through his frame, “It was horrid. I hated spending my summers there.”

“Don’t worry. If I was gonna attack you, you wouldn’t even notice till it was done.”

Arthur faced Mason again, realizing the other man was watching him in that way he always did when Arthur referred to things like this. His brown eyes studied Arthur in a way that didn’t feel threatening, but still made his gut roil something odd. He shifted on his other leg, gesturing down the river where the horses were, “I’m gonna go get the horses. You goin’ to manage not to get yourself eaten or drowned while I’m gone?”

Mason smoothed out his wet shirt, his face shifting into a soft smile, “I shall certainly try my best.”  
_____

“Hey Morgan!” The occupants of the table turned to see Bill saunter up to the table. The large man hooked a thumb over his shoulder, “Yer boy is lookin’ for you.”

Arthur shifted his leg to straddle the bench and leaned over to see who Bill was referring to. The person hugged the edges of the clearing, but even from this far he could make out the familiar figure of Albert Mason. He couldn’t help the spark of excitement at seeing the photographer, it’s been two weeks since their fishing trip and he hadn’t seen the other man since then. He excused himself from the table, ignoring the jeers and snickers from the others.

He jogged, squinting his eyes against the sun. He missed his hat. Mason beamed at him as he approached, his heart making a weird flopping feeling at the sight. The photographer had forgone his usual brown leather bag and instead clutched a wrapped parcel in his hands. Arthur pointed at it, “What’s in there?”

“Good morning to you too,” Mason replied dryly a smaller fonder smile on his face. Arthur had the decency to look embarrassed. Mason held out the parcel regardless of Arthur’s lack of tact, “It’s for you.”

“For me?”

“That’s what I said, yes.”

Arthur accepted the gift, handling it a bit like he would a particularly volatile dynamite. Mason rolled his eyes, waving his hands in an impatient manner. Arthur got the message tearing at the wrinkly paper. Arthur lifted an eyebrow, “A box?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I know you’re smarter than that,” Mason scoffed, slapping lightly at his shoulder. His hands hovered precariously close to the gift, looking seconds away from opening it himself. Knowing him, he probably is. His eyes held the same level of excitement whenever he showed Arthur the finished product of their photographic adventures. Arthur found himself studying the golden flecks that burst through the brown of Mason’s eyes.

“Is this some kind of torture?” Arthur blinked. Mason’s voice had held its usual jovial tone, smile playing on his lips, but his eyes held a more serious depth to them as they regarded him. It gave off the effect that the man was trying to puzzle through something particularly confusing.

Pushing those troubling thoughts aside he finally lifted the lid of the box. A brand new wide dark tanned valley hat rested inside the box.

“Hey” Arthur laughed, unable to keep the smile from his face.

Mason returned the smile, clapping his hands together slightly, “Oh good you like it. The store clerk in Rhodes didn’t have the same hat you had lost so I had to take a gamble on whether you’d look good in this style or not.”

Arthur placed his new hat on top his head staring at Mason expectantly, “Well?” Arthur stepped back standing up straighter he shot Mason his best charming smile, “Do I look good or not?”

A beat of silence passed as Mason studied him, “You look very handsome.” Mason eventually answered, and that serious tone was back in his eyes tinting his words into something more. Warmth flooded his chest. Arthur couldn’t take his eyes away from the other man’s face. Something seemed to brew between them, growing and clawing its way out from inside. Arthur wasn’t sure what the hell it was, only that he wouldn’t be able to take much more of it, without acting upon it.

Mason cleared his voice and just like that the tension between them shattered. The photographer smoothed down his shirt, fiddling with the clasps pf his suspenders, “Well I should be going.”

Arthur stepped back, unsure of when he’d gotten so close to the other man and grateful for a new hat to hide his face under. He didn’t think he could quite hide the disappointment on his face for the loss at whatever had almost happened between them, “More turtles to photograph?” he said.

“No, no”, Mason replied, waving a hand in the air, “But I’m sure you’re a very busy man when you’re not acting as a bodyguard to some eccentric photographer.”

“Actually,” Arthur looked over the camp. Uncle, Lenny, Karen and Sean jumped when his eyes roamed over to them, each person pretending exaggeratedly that they were doing something completely else. Arthur barely managed to suppress a sigh at the sight. He turned back to Mason, “I’m free. What did you have in mind for today?”

Mason seemed to inflate at the question, his eyes sparkling and hands waving a bit more excitedly as he answered, “Well- Uh- Would you like to go, maybe on a walk with me?” he finished awkwardly a blush crawling up his neck.

Arthur shrugged already sauntering over to his horse, “Sure.”

They walked in companionable silence, enjoying the sounds of Lemoyne woods around them. They were careful not to go too deep into the woods, not wanting to run into any of the Lemoyne Riders. Winters End trailed obediently behind them, Mason’s borrowed horse tied to her saddle. Mason studied the man in front of him. Arthur had an easy going air around him. His broad shoulders slumping downwards in a relaxed manner, hands in his pockets. Wisps of dark blonde hair peeked out from underneath his hat, curling at the nape of his neck and shining bright whenever a patch of sun passed over the man’s figure. Mason trailed his eyes downwards, catching on the man’s large biceps before moving on down to his legs. Mason swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. Arthur met his eyes from over his shoulder, that damned smirk on his face again, “You okay there Mister Mason?”

Heat built at the base of his neck again, creeping upwards and Mason cursed silently. The man always had a way of making Mason feel like a flustered fool. Or worse, like a blushing maiden. He rubbed a hand through his face, feeling the scratch of his beard against his palm. Arthur slowed down coming to walk right next to him, a concerned tilt to his brow, “You alright?”

Mason smiled although it didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I-“ He fell silent again, unsure of how to continue. Or if he should. Arthur bumped his shoulder with his own staring at him from out the side of his hat. Mason met that ever piercing gaze that seemed to stare straight through his skin to what laid underneath. He scrubbed a hand down his face again, “I am a damned fool, Mister Morgan.”

“Well now,” Arthur started, a small self-deprecating smile on his face. Mason wasn’t sure if Arthur was aware of it, “if there was a fool between us I ‘reckon it’d be me.”

“Not like that Arthur,” Mason said a disapproving scowl on his face, “And you’re not by the way. Of all the people I know, you are one of the smartest. Besides being book-smart,” Mason continued before Arthur could protest, “Does a person no good when it comes to the matter of the heart.” He finished with a sigh.

Arthur stayed silent so Mason continued, ignoring the racing of his heart, “Oh sure it was no struggle for the great minds of Shakespeare and Lord Byron, they made it seem easy with their stunning plays and astounding poems.” Mason pushed a frustrated breath through his teeth, his hands tapping nervously against his thighs.

Arthur kept his gaze at the path straight ahead of them, answering in a carefully measured tone, “Well you know all these words, why don’t you write a –a poem of your’s own?”

Mason let out a bitter laugh, “I’m afraid it’s not quite so simple.”

“Why?” Mason blinked surprised at the bitter tone echoed in Arthur’s voice. The other man still refused to meet his eyes, but his hand clenched in a tight fist where it hung between them, “I’m sure whatever lady you’re sweet on is well-educated.”

Mason grabbed his shoulder, forcing Arthur to face him. His heart pounded painfully in his chest and every instinct in his body screamed at him that this was a bad idea, but watching Arthur now, hands clenched and eyes still refusing to meet his own. He thought that maybe he wasn’t making up the slight longing that hung underneath the bitterness of Arthur’s voice.

“It’s not that simple because- “, Mason cut-off, licking his lips. His hands fiddled with the hems of his pants and he made a deliberate effort to stop. He didn’t want to look like he had an ounce of doubt at what he was about to confess, “Well, because Arthur, the person ‘I’m sweet on’ seems to insist that they are denser than they actually are.”

Arthur’s eyes flew up, meeting his own and this time Mason was sure he didn’t make up the crack of hope shining through the other man’s light-coloured eyes. A thrill of confidence filled his being and Mason lifted his head, meeting Arthur’s gaze head on, “You are the densest man on earth, Mr. Morgan.”

Mason blinked finding himself suddenly pressed up against the base of a tree. Strong forearms braced next to his head, keeping him trapped in front of Arthur’s piercing stare. A pool of something striking and warm filled his core as he maintained contact with the other man’s stormy gaze. Arthur’s face twisted into something unknown studying Mason then he leaned forward and covered Mason’s mouth with his own. Mason’s not exactly surprised, he saw the lust pooling in Arthur’s eyes just before he leaned in, but he wasn’t exactly expecting it to be this intense.

Arthur kissed how he lived; with confidence and full of haste, like time was running out for him and he only had this, this moment, this fleeting second to make things count. As his lips moved over his own he felt his legs weaken at the knees, catching himself around Arthur’s shoulders. The other man stepped closer, pressing their torsos together and curling a hand against Mason’s hip to help support him.

They broke apart, Arthur leaning his forehead against his. They were both gasping, Mason wasn’t sure it was completely from the lack of air as they kissed. Arthur’s eyes were less stormy, instead the colour shifted to a more calm blue. Like the ocean after a hurricane. Mason had only ever seen it once when he was a child. He’d been visiting his grandfather, an old fisherman and drinker. His father would often say that the day they found his grandfather without a rod in one hand and a beer in the other is the day the world ended. Not long after a hurricane tore through seaside village leaving devastation and destruction in its wake. The towns’ people mourned for all they lost, but his grandfather came striding down the main road, rod and beer in hand. The people flocked behind him, some laughing hysterically the way grieving people do and some even yelled out obscenities. His grandfather had regarded them all with a cool expression and said, _“What’re you all grieving for like some widowed soldier’s wife? The world ain’t over, we’ll rebuild.”_

It was one of the fondest memories Mason had of his grandfather.

“Mr. Arthur!” A voice broke through the moment, bringing both men crashing firmly back to earth. Mason jumped at the sudden intrusion, his hands snapping away from where they held onto the other man. Arthur pulled back his face going blank. Mason felt a tingle of fear move through his spine at the look in the other man’s eyes, “Arthur?” A perceptible shake of his head, had Mason quieting down.

“Fellas’” Arthur called throwing his hands out to his side, finger spread. To Mason it looked eerily like a surrender, “Fine morning ain’t it?”

Two men emerged from the woods dressed in suits, the badges on their chest catching the light casting through the canopy of trees. Parked ominously behind them was a prisoner’s van pulled by two horses. Mason swallowed nervously, dread pulling at the edges of his heart.

The men turned their attention to Mason pinning him with their stare, “Allow us to introduce ourselves,” The leader of the two said gesturing between him and his friend, “I’m Agent Milton and this is my partner Agent Ross. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

Mason copied Arthur’s stance, spreading his arms out next to him, “I see no reason why this can’t be under pleasant circumstances.”

“For you maybe, but I’m afraid we’re here on business concerning your friend here.” Agent Milton said turning back towards Arthur. Mason followed his gaze, ignoring the way his heart threatened to jump out of his chest.

“Can’t possibly see what type of business you need my friend here for.”, Mason stammered. Agent Ross made his way over to Winters End and the elderly stallion. Arthur narrowed his eyes warningly, but Ross only grabbed the reigns and tethered the horses to a tree.

“Let us not act coy, here.” Milton said not kindly. He waved his hands at Mason like he was a particularly annoying fly, “Now Mr. Mason I advise you to step aside so we can conduct our business.”

“Well it would be ungentlemanly of me to abandon my friend in an apparent time of need.”

“Please Mister Mason, you don’t want to do that. How does that saying go? Lie with dogs and you’ll get fleas?” Milton sneered, fixing his dark gaze back on Mason, “…and you Mister Mason threw yourself into a particularly flea-infested dog pit.”

“I’ll ask you to allow me to make my own decisions,” Mason replied tersely. His nerves hardened at the obvious disgust in the lawman’s voice, “and where to lie.”

Arthur jerked slightly at the words and spoke for the first time since the encounter started “Mason.” He snapped, a low warning to his voice.

Agent Ross picked up on the tone, grinning a bit too widely, “Do you know what crime your associate has been accused of?”

“That he’s been allegedly accused of.” Mason shot back, crossing his arms to hide the way they were trembling.

“Yes, of course.” Agent Ross conceded a faux chastised look on his face, “Allegedly, he’s been accused of multiple charges of assault, robbery, manslaughter and straight up murder.”

“I told’ya,” Arthur said, “I ain’t the man you’re looking for.”

“Oh really?” The lead agent said a smug tone to his voice. The agent took a notebook out of his pocket, pretending to flip through and read a note, “Tell me does the name Thomas Downes mean anything to you?”

Mason was looking at the two agents, but didn’t miss the way Arthur’s eyes tightened at the name. Clearly the name meant something to the other man. A hard lump started forming at the pit of his gut. A grin spread across the agent’s face that was all twisted up and hungry. It was the face of a wolf that had spent a long time scenting out the blood of his wounded prey and finally had it cornered. A whisper of cold dread shifted down his spine.

“See Mrs. Downes,” The agent stopped here, a fake look of sympathy marring his face, “Or is that Miss Downes now?”

Arthur didn’t say anything, only tightening his fists where they were already clenched tight against his sides. Mason wanted to uncurl them and reassure him that whatever happened was probably just a misunderstanding, but a look at the Agent’s partner made it clear that if either of them so much as twitched in the wrong directions things would end badly for both of them.

“You see,” The agent continued, taking his hat off, “Poor Mrs. Downes recently lost her husband. Tragic circumstances really. See Mr. Downes was a poor sickly man with a farm that had hit hard times. A regular occurrence in these trying times. Now Thomas did something any desperate family man in his position would do. He took out an ill-advised loan from a German fella. Well Mr. Downes couldn’t pay fast enough and the German sent his attack dog to take care of it.”

“You’re pulling at my damn heartstrings here.”, Arthur finally said, an unnerving level of calmness to his voice. He glared at the men in front of him from underneath his hat, “But I don’t see what all this has to do with me.”

“Don’t be cute Mr. Morgan, we all know a man like you isn’t capable of having a heart.” The Agent said. Mason felt a coil of anger as the man’s partner laughed. “The living wife and son were brave enough to identify both the man they loaned from and the man who killed Mr Downes.”

“Debiting ain’t illegal.”

“But beating a man to death is.” The agent pulled out a piece of paper, unfolding it then holding it up for them all to see, “I’ve got a warrant for your arrest right here.”

Mason blinked. He knew Arthur wasn’t a saint by any means, but the things they were describing didn’t sound at all like the man that followed him around the country protecting Mason from the predators of the land. For heaven’s sake, he had asked one of the most wanted and arguably dangerous men in the country to chase after a coyote to grab his bag. His ears were ringing due to the speed his heart was racing. The days he spent with Arthur these last few months flashed past his eyes. When Arthur had shot those wolves with deadly accuracy and at an almost impossible speed. The way he had complained, but still baited an alligator without an ounce of fear in his body.

Did that mean all of the people Mason had met the day in camp were dangerous criminals too? He felt the blood drain from his face at a dizzying speed. If he hadn’t known Arthur who knew what would have happened to Mason that day. His knees felt weak and like they couldn’t support him anymore. Arthur reached out a hand to steady him when Mason stumbled backwards and to his horror he felt himself recoil from the other man’s touch. Fuck what was wrong with him. Arthur was his friend. He’d kept Mason from dying an idiotic death multiple times over. His thoughts buzzed too fast for him to grasp on anything. He didn’t know what to think anymore.

“Hey, what the hell do you thin- “ Arthur snapped, taking an angry step forward. He stopped short in his tracks. A gun cocking drew Mason out of his thoughts. Mason lifted his head and found his whole world zeroing in on the barrel end of a gun.

“Now don’t try anything questionable Mister Arthur,” The agent’s oily voice declared, “Why don’t you go ahead and allow my partner to relieve you of your weapons.”

Arthur growled a low angry sound, but lifted his arms up again, much like he had in the beginning of this exchange. Mason wanted to tell him not to do it, that these were men of the law and they wouldn’t shoot him just because Arthur didn’t surrender, but he couldn’t get his mouth to move. His tongue stuck drily to the roof of his mouth and no amount of swallowing would unstick it. He couldn’t even take his eyes away from the sight of the gun pointed at him. The metal shone obscenely bright in the small clearing.

A grunt of pain on his right finally tore his focus away from the gun. Arthur was on his knees, curling protectively over his side, the other agent looming threateningly over him. Mason’s feet moved forward on instinct, but the flash of metal reminded him of the danger he was in. That they both were in. The other agent placed a boot on the back of Arthur’s shoulders pushing him to the ground. The gun never wavered away from Mason’s head and the other agent roughly tied Arthur’s wrists behind his back. Mason watched helpless as they dragged Arthur to his feet and over to the horses. Both Agents backs were turned towards him, clearly deeming him a non-threat. A wind blew through the small clearing stirring the air around them. Arthur’s pistol caught the side of Mason’s eye. He turned watching the weapon. It laid inconspicuously close to his feet. He could grab it and shoot the men taking Arthur away, before any of them noticed. His fingernails dug crescent shaped wounds into his palms. It was so easy, all he had to do was grab the gun.

“Well, it’s been nice meeting you Mister Mason,” He flicked his eyes up at the snide voice of the head agent, to see that both lawmen were seated on top their horses. He could just about make out the unconscious form of Arthur slumped in the back of the prison van. When had they…?

Mason felt a flicker of panic as the lawmen maneuvered their horses away riding off with Arthur. The panic built till his chest started to feel tight again. He gasped, curling into himself. What was he supposed to do? Arthur was a wanted criminal. He was gone. The Lawmen took him. A whinny to his left drew his attention. Winters End stood at the edge of the clearing pulling tightly at the harness tethering her to the tree. She stomped and whickered agitatedly. His own horse stomped nervously next to her.

Mason took a deep breath pushing the panic he felt aside for now. He knew what he had to do.  
___

A crashing sound at the edge of the clearing drew the attention of the men, and Karen, gathered around the fire. John already had his gun out and sighted even before Arthur’s horse came running into view. Dutch opened his mouth to praise the young man for his readiness when the obviously distressed condition of the mare captured his attention. Kieran came darting out of the darkness from the direction of the second fire. The former O’Driscoll, held up his hands cooing softly at the horse till he managed to get close enough to grab her bridle.

“Mr. Mason?” Kieran exclaimed walking the horse a bit closer to the fire. True enough when the light illuminated the rider, it was the stricken face of Albert Mason that greeted them. Dutch’s heart skipped a beat, a heavy feeling of worry making itself known.

“What’s happened?” He demanded, a hard edge to his voice. Mason swung down from the horse, stumbling slightly upon landing. Dutch couldn’t make out any dark splotches indicating injury out on the younger man’s shirt. It did little to appease the heavy feeling in his chest. He pushed forward, taking hold of Mason’s shoulders in a bruising grip, “Where’s Arthur?”

“A pair of Agents took him.” The man answered a crack to his voice.

Dutch stepped back a veil of freezing dread settling over his person. He was vaguely aware of Sean stepping forward his accent twisted ugly with anger, “It must’a been those same bastards as last time!”

“We have to go get him.” Javier said already turning to go swap his guitar for his rifle.

“Do we though?”

“Not the time, John.” That was Charles a disapproving timbre to his somber voice.

Dutch blinked at the warm hand settling over his shoulder, “Don’t be hasty men,” Hosea’s voice spoke next to his shoulder, his voice a soothing balm over the men’s rising anger. Dutch turned to see the eyes of his oldest friend studying him in the dark, now was not the time to shut down. Arthur was in trouble and if he let the men go alone things could end really badly. He took a deep breath pushing his emotions aside.

“It is true, we need to get Arthur back,” He began, proud of the deep steadiness of his voice, “But we will accomplish nothing riding off in the dark blindly.” Like moths to a candle, everyone stopped in their tracks, giving him their full attention, “First we need to find out where he was when he was taken.”

Their heads swiveled towards the panicked photographer. He twitched, running a shaky hand through his hairs, “We- uh- we were near lake close to the burned down church.”

“I know where that is.” Bill piped up. Dutch nodded his mind already forming a mental roster of the search party. The large man continued talking, pointing harshly towards Mason, “Why didn’t you do anythin’ to stop ‘em?!”

Mason took a step back his face becoming impossibly paler, “I-I- I tried.”

“Williamson, leave Mr. Mason be and go get the horses ready” Dutch interjected harshly. Hosea nodded in approval and Dutch turned his attention to him, “I’m afraid you can’t come along this time old friend.”

“Of course,” Hosea said, “But you can’t be involved in this either, Dutch.”

Said man ignored him, instead addressing the others, “Charles you, Bill, John and Javier will ride out with me. We don’t know how many men we’ll be dealing with, so best to go with the least amount but most skilled men.”

“Dutch.” Hosea insisted, coughing into the sleeve of his coat.

“Get the map,” Dutch told Karen, “Give it to Mr. Mason over there so he can show us exactly where Arthur and him was at the time.”

 _“Dutch!”_ Hosea bellowed, his voice the clearest it’s been in months. Everyone halted short of what they were doing. Dutch still refused to meet his eyes, “It’s you they want.”

 _“I am not abandoning our son!”_ Dutch bellowed. Everyone jerked, hurriedly going back to work, giving the men privacy. Kieran gently coached both Mason and Winters End closer towards the other fire.

“We’re not,” Hosea amended gently, “But they only took him, because they’re trying to bait you out.”

“Well it’s working.” Dutch growled finally letting out all the anger and worry he felt inside bleed out now that they didn’t have an audience. He saw the same emotion reflected on Hosea’s face.

“If it was anyone else, you would send Sean with them instead of yourself.”

“Yes, but this isn’t anyone else.”

They regarded each other silently for a few minutes. Decades’ worth of friendship and understanding swirling between them. Eventually Hosea sighed, fixing his gaze on the ground, “Just comeback alive, both of you.”

Dutch rested a comforting hand on the other man’s shoulder, “Of course, old friend.”

The others took this as some signal, approaching, horses in tow. Dutch turned to them, accepting the reigns of his own horse, “Alright men let’s go.”

Mason blinked watching all of these people stepping up without hesitation to go help Arthur. He clenched his hands, ignoring the sting of the cuts already there. Guilt and shame burned at the corner of his eyes, threatening to spill over. A warm hand gripped his shoulder. Mason followed the arm up to the face of a steady Hosea. The old man tightened his grip at the sight of the younger man’s face.

“Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”

Whatever he said afterwards was drowned out by the thundering of hooves around them.

___

Another burst of pain exploded across his face, whipping his head to the side. Arthur groaned, spitting out what was hopefully just blood. His whole body throbbed in time with his heart beat.

“You are a stubborn man Morgan,” Agent Milton said, rubbing at his bruised knuckles, “It’s causing me a great deal of pain.”

“Real sorry to hear that,” Arthur said, frowning at the slurred sound of his own voice. The Pinkertons had him tied up in the middle of the camp. Although the rest of them kept a wide berth around him. Agent Milton walked over to the fire pit then crouching down he picked up a metal rod. Arthur shifted where he was tied up on the ground, ignoring the spike of pain that small movement cost him. His hands were shackled above him on the temporary pole, usually meant to hitch horses. He’d long ago lost feeling in them, or maybe they were just drowned out by the rest of him crying in pain.

“Do you know why the Pinkerton Detective Agency strikes fear in the heart of bandits everywhere?” Agent Milton said in a conversational tone. His face glowed a warm orange in the light of the fire, a stark contrast to the cold orbs of his eyes. Arthur kept a wary eye on the tip of the metal rod engulfed by flames. The other man didn’t seemed to be bothered by his silence, answering the question himself, “Because we are good at making even the toughest and most,” he turned to catch Arthur’s eye, “loyal of gang members to roll on their leaders.”

“Good for you, you want a pat on the back and a ‘atta boy’?” Arthur said, pulling his lips in a mockery of a smile. All sharp pink-stained teeth and twisted edges. Agent Milton left the rod resting in the fire, coming towards him again. Arthur barely had time to brace himself when a boot came flying into his unprotected side. A throbbing wave of pain blossomed out from his side, traveling through his stuttering chest. He curled up instinctively, but a boot on his thigh and a hand gripping his hair halted his movement. Blood blossomed from the welts already on his thigh inflicted from earlier that day.

“You think you’re the first smart mouthed outlaw I’ve had tied to these poles?” Agent Milton hissed, his breath crawling over Arthur’s right ear, “When the night is through, this afternoon will seem like childsplay.”

Agent Milton wrenched his head to the side, before letting go. Straightening up he walked back over to the fire, “I’ll ask you again, where is Van der Linde hiding?”

“An’ I told you I haven’t seen him in months.”

The metal rod glowed a hellish orange when Agent Milton lifted it from the fire, a protective cloth of hard leather wrapped around where he gripped the thing in his hand. Arthur couldn’t quite keep the hitch from his breath. The other man grinned sauntering over, metal rod held loosely in one grip. He swung the glowing hot tip just shy of Arthur’s bare left foot. His toes twitched involuntarily at the wave of heat skimming over the pads of his feet. Arthur liked to think that he didn’t pull his feet protectively towards him because he wasn’t a fuckin coward, resolutely ignoring the tiny voice in his head saying he couldn’t.

“Are you sure you don’t want to change your answer, Mister Morgan?”

With the last dregs of energy, he lifted his head, meeting Agent Milton directly in the eye, “Might as well put that rod through my eye, because I’m not telling you shit.”

Everything happened at once. The woods around them exploded in a flurry of flashes and gunshots. At the same time the red-hot tip of the rod made contact with the side of his leg. Arthur couldn’t help the scream of pain from tearing through his throat. The world around him disappeared in a rush of white. It seemed like a long time till Arthur could blink, the world coming back in a slow trickle of sights and sounds and by then the action around him seemed to have died down. He became aware of a pair of black formal pants falling down next to him and large warm hands grabbing at his torso. He hissed at the aching pain those hands caused, trying to lean away from them.

“Arthur!”

He blinked at the familiar inflections of that voice. The hands moved up, lightly grasping his throat and head. A blurry version of Dutch swam into view and a spike of concern shot out of somewhere in his chest just barely noticeable above the ache and exhaustion warring for attention in his body, “Dutch, you shoul’nt be here.”

“Are you saying you aren’t happy to see me?” Dutch laughed. Arthur frowned, something in Dutch’s voice didn’t sound right. A little too high or a little too fast. Arthur wanted to question the older man about it, but became aware of someone fiddling with the cuffs holding him in place. He rolled his head, finding himself staring at the familiar pattern of Javier’s poncho. Behind him stood John, his scars glowing in the fire light. Charles was next to him, keeping watch on something past the circle surrounding Arthur.

“I can’t bust these locks in the dark like this,” Javier complained. His voice seemed to dim and fade as he spoke. None of the others said anything so Arthur assumed it was just him. Charles abandoned his post pulling out a revolver as he approached. He levelled the gun and with marksman precision shot the chain linking Arthur’s shackles together.

“J***s, warn a man next time!” John yelled, rubbing at his ears. Next to him Javier cursed loudly in Spanish rubbing at his own ears. Movement beyond the circle of people caught Arthur’s attention and by sheer muscle memory and experience alone he grasped the revolver just visible underneath Javier’s poncho. A crack of sound echoed through the forest and Agent Milton slumped to the ground, blood trickling through the hole in his forehead. 

Arthur dropped the still smoking gun. He looked up at John, curling slightly over his legs, “Watch out.”

Dutch laughed sidling up next to him, securing Arthur’s arm over his shoulders, “Let’s get you home. Bill’s waiting with the horses.”

__

A thundering of hooves had everyone shooting up and towards the sound. Hosea breathed out a sigh of relief at the sight of all five horses and their occupants. Mason shot up like a bullet next to him. Hosea’s eyes zeroed in on the extra body on the back of Bill’s horse, his feet already moving forward.

“Get Jack, the boy doesn’t need to see this.” Hosea ordered, but for once John seemed to have embraced his fatherly duties, already slipping off his horse, before Hosea was even done speaking, and lifting the small boy into his arms and walking away towards the serene view of the lake. It must have been bad.

“Help ‘Em down, those Pinkerton bastards got ‘im good.” Bill snapped to those closest to him. He kept a strong arm around Arthur’s waist, nearly leaning off his saddle to lower him to the waiting hands of Pearson and Sean. Arthur let out a cry at the movement, but didn’t stir, even as Pearson and Sean levelled him between the two of them.

Hosea felt a pang of sorrow at the state of the younger man. His normally pink shirt was stained a dark brownish colour, barely clinging to his torso. He’d lost his boots and new hat, his barefeet snagging on the grass as Pearson and Sean carried him, inside the camp and towards Strauss’ wagon. They gently lowered him down onto the bedroll. Hosea frowned in concern at the lack of response from Arthur this time. Pearson and Sean stepped back allowing Strauss and Hosea to take their place. This close up it was easier to see the damage those Pinkerton Agents caused. Strauss and Hosea rolled up their sleeves readying to get to work. Miss Grimshaw ushered the other occupants away with a gruff tone and a sharp movement. Someone lowered the two canvas’ to the side of the wagon, keeping the main one open to allow the early morning sun to stream in.

“You start at his head and I’ll see what’s the matter with his legs, yes?” Strauss said, already sawing at the material of Arthur’s jeans. Hosea sat down near Arthur’s head, tilting up his head to see better. It looked bad, but was probably not as bad as it looked. Dried blood crusted underneath his left eye from a cut on his cheek. The blood converged with that underneath his nose and finally ended at the bottom of his chin. Hosea reached to find something to clean with, pleased to find that someone already had the forethought to bring a bowl of boiled water with rags. He picked up one of the soaked rags, wringing out the excess water and set to work. By the time he had Arthur’s face clean from blood and Strauss his legs, they had to replace the water twice. Arthur had only woken up once, jerking away from their hands with a grunted, _“. . . don’t need no damn sponge bath. . .”_

Strauss had responded with a mild, ”Would you rather we get Herr Mason to do it?”. That had gotten Arthur distracted enough for Hosea to force him to drink a Ginseng and Yarrow root mix tonic without the man noticing. He’d become more pliant after that, allowing the two men to get back to work, although he wasn’t as deeply asleep as last time, jerking awake whenever either of them cleaned or stitched a practically painful wound. Mason showed up near the end, after a particularly loud shout from Arthur, ending in a litany of curses.

“Don’t just diddle-daddle out there like a worried house wife! Make yourself useful.” Hosea called. Mason stepped forward, a sheepish smile on his face. Hosea motioned towards Arthur, “Keep him still would you.”

Mason sat down, his brow pulling down like he was contemplating something. His face smoothed out, finally decided. Hosea kept a watchful eye as he saw Mason gently lift Arthur’s head, laying it down in his lap. Arthur stirred at the movement, blinking bleary eyes open, “Mason?”

Mason hummed meeting his eyes, “Yes?” He asked a light inquiring tone to his voice that was only slightly dampened by the worry in them. Arthur didn’t seem to notice only continuing his new fascination with Mason’s face. Stitching and bandaging Arthur’s body like he was, it was hard for Hosea not to notice the way Arthur’s whole body seemed to ease at the sight of the photographer. The muscles in Arthur’s torso smoothed out, his arms and legs sagging into the bed. Strauss didn’t comment on the change in their patient and Hosea was thankful for that, unwilling to crack open the can of worms that was Arthur’s relationship with Mason.

They managed to finish cleaning and bandaging the wounded man with relative ease, Mason keeping him distracted with a soft litany of stories whenever the tonics weren’t quite enough to dull the pain. Those were the moments where Arthur gripped tightly onto Mason’s forearms, gritting his teeth painfully as they worked him over all while Mason tried to keep face. It was hard to tell whether the pain in his eyes were caused from Arthur gripping him too hard, or the sight of the wounded man himself. Finally Hosea and Strauss emerged from the wagon, rubbing pink-stained hands on a rag. Dutch was there immediately, most of the camp a step behind him.

“Well?” Dutch asked, not quite managing to keep his voice as steady as he meant to. Strauss had turned around to close the wagon’s last canvas flap so Hosea stepped forward to answer,

“He’ll live to see tomorrow yet.” Hosea said passing the rag to Strauss, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a tired smile.

“What a shame,” Pearson said, “Was looking forward at having one less mouth to feed.” Grimshaw whacked him upside the head a disapproving scowl on her face,  
“Don’t speak of things like that.” She reprimanded ruffling the skirts of her dress.

“I was only joking you insufferable woman!” Pearson defended, rubbing at the ache on his head.

“Uhm. . .”, A tentative voice interrupted and they all turned to see Mason stepping away from the wagon. His eyes darted around the group, “I think he’s looking for a dutch man?”

“A dutch man?” Dutch said, a sardonic turn of lips on his face. Mason started nodding, but aborted the movement and shrugged instead.

“I think so?”

Maybe it was the exhaustion pouring out from deep within his bones or at the absurdity of the situation, but Hosea wanted to laugh. Here this man was standing in the middle of Dutch Van der Linde’s camp of outlaws, surrounded by his men and having just come out from helping treat what was practically Dutch’s son and he didn’t even know his name.

Dutch shook his head stepping past them and towards the wagon, “I’ll go see what he wants.”

The occupants surrounding the tent slowly trickled away giving the men a bit of privacy. Mason lingered for a moment, unwilling to leave the other man again so soon until a now familiar pressure on his shoulder steered him away and towards the fire. He stumbled along pliantly. All he could see was the gruesome image of Arthur’s face covered in blood and grime.

___

Dutch entered the closed off wagon. Arthur’s eyes were closed, but opened when he entered. A lantern hung above their heads, casting the makeshift room in a warm glow. It wasn’t quite dark enough to hide the extensive bruising on Arthur’s face. Dutch lowered himself near Arthur’s head, wincing at the way his knees popped at the movement.

“…I didn’t tell ‘em…” Arthur slurred, his hand reaching up unsteadily. Dutch gripped his hand in a steady grip, placing a comforting hand on his chest.

“I know son.”

Arthur lost the battle to stay conscious, his eyes drifting shut again. Dutch tucked the blanket over the man, his eyes lingering over the bandages littering the younger man’s chest. He pulled a chair closer, settling back down into it. He buried his head in his hands. A heavy weight of despair settled down over his shoulder. Everything that could go wrong seemed to, starting with that damned ferry job.

__

Arthur cracked open his eyes, squinting at the light of the lantern.

“How you feeling, son?” Dutch’s voice asked to the side of him. Arthur rolled his head to the side, blinking till the watery image of the older man solidified a bit more. Dutch was looking at him, his ever present green book in his hands.

“I have the vague memory of being rescued by John,” Arthur answered, surprised at the wretched sound of his own voice. He cleared his throat, “So not that good.”

“A memory I’m sure John won’t allow you to forget.” Dutch chuckled, closing his book fully and setting it down on a table nearby. Dutch leaned forward a serious tilt to his eyebrows. Arthur spoke before Dutch could,

“I didn’t tell ‘em anything.” He muttered, pleased when his voice came out a bit steadier.

Dutch blinked, leaning back in his chair. His face tensed, the lines of his face getting deeper the way it does whenever the older man was upset about something,“I know, son. I wasn’t going to ask about that.”

“Oh.” Arthur said, blinking slightly, “What about then?”

Dutch’s face morphed from upset to pinched, looking like he desperately wanted to ask Arthur about something. Arthur waited, regarding him patiently. His eyes had drifted shut by the time Dutch spoke again and he blinked them open.

“There’s someone who’d like to see you.” Dutch announced, getting up from his seated position.

Arthur would have lifted an eyebrow if it wouldn’t have hurt so damn bad. Instead he tried his best to let the wryness come through his voice, “S’not like I’m busy or anythin’.”

Dutch smiled, patting lightly at his shins, mindful of the wounds there, “I’ll go get him.”

Arthur tried his best to shake off the fatigue washing through his body. He didn’t know he had lost the fight till he opened his eyes at the sound of someone settling down on the chair next to him. Mason sat in the chair Dutch had vacated moments ago. His face pulled up in a small smile when Arthur met his eyes, “Hello.”

“I’m sorry.” Arthur muttered, unable to keep his eyes open. Mason made a strangled sound next to him and even though Arthur couldn’t see him he imagined the hand waving that accompanied the sound.

“What possibly for?!” Mason demanded.

Arthur shifted, not bothering to fight his eyelids open again as he answered, “ ’S my fault you were almost hurt.”

“Arthur no,” Arthur blinked his eyes open at the unusually serious tone of Mason’s voice, “You didn’t do anything.”

Arthur laughed bitterly, wincing when the movement stretched the wounds littering his chest. Mason shifted forward in his seat his hands hovering worriedly over him. Arthur waved him off and was surprised at the clammy hand that grabbed his own. Mason regarded him with a somber expression, clutching Arthur’s hand tighter, “I didn’t know whether you’d be okay,” he whispered.

“Whoulda thought…” It took Arthur a great deal of effort to speak, the man slowly hashing out his words with pauses in-between, “You’d be the one worryin’ bout me this time.” Mason gave him a smile, but it lacked any humor.

“If this is the sort of hellish feeling I’ve been letting you suffer from then I believe it’s time to hang up the old camera.”

Surprise filled him at the serious tone of the photographer. He conveyed it when he stated; “That’s what ya came all the way out here for. What you’ve worked so hard for.”

He felt Mason’s fingers curl around his own, stroking feather light over his knuckles.

“Perhaps,” Mason started, staring at Arthur with a deep longing and determination “but it is not the reason I stayed”, he confessed. This time when Arthur’s breath hitched it wasn’t from pain. He felt something tighten in his throat, returning the photographer’s gaze. Only now did occur to him that the man was actually here, instead of on the first train out.

After what happened with the lawmen he was sure that Albert would have packed his bags and left with the wind back to the civilization in the East. Arthur’s outlaw status wasn’t so much a secret anymore after all.

Even while he was held by the Pinkertons the photographer managed to take precedent in his mind, in-between memories of Dutch raising him, thoughts of Tilly, Miss Grimshaw, everyone back at camp and what would happen to them if the law found them, what would happen to Little Jack who loved to play down by the creek- between all this racing through his mind the idea of also having lost Mason had destroyed him.

When Albert flinched away from him, hurt more than the beating he received. He swallowed thickly, pushing the memory to the side.

But Albert wasn’t avoiding him now. Instead the man clung tightly to his hand refusing to let go. He was here. With Arthur.

That had to count for something.

\--

“Back so soon, Mr Morgan?” Miss Grimshaw’s voice floated over to him from where she stood by Hosea, near Pearson’s wagon. Arthur tipped his hat in greeting to the older woman as he rode into camp.

It had been just under two weeks since the Pinkerton incident and his skin still carried the evidence of it by way of black and blue bruising. It stood out starkly in the midday sun. Miss Grimshaw had struck up quite a fuss when Arthur refused to stay on bed rest. She berated him like a misbehaving toddler every time she caught him even three feet away from his wagon. In turn, he’d accused her of coddling him and goin’ soft in her old age. In the end Dutch stepped in telling Miss Grimshaw to just ‘Let the stubborn fool be.’

He dismounted his horse, the movement jostling all his bruises and causing him to wince. He continued to grimace as he hitched his mare to her post, but was saved from the further strain of brushing her down by Kieran. The young man jogged over and immediately insisted on taking over. A small grateful 'thank you' slipped out of his mouth before Arthur could catch it. Kieran perked up like a praised pup and set out to brush Winters End till her coat shone a pearly white again. Arthur bit out an O’Driscoll before he left just to see the already nervous man squirm. Had to keep him on his toes, lest he thought Arthur was starting to warm up to him. It didn't matter that maybe he was. He made to hobble towards his cart, but was stopped by Hosea calling him, “Oi Fenton!”

Arthur groaned, “What?” He growled, knowing his irate reaction was exactly what Hosea had aimed for.

The old man shot him a shit-eating grin, gesturing hat-in-hand towards the scout campfire, “Ya fella’s ‘ere!”

Arthur ignored the dreadful accent coating the words, instead searching for who Hosea was pointing at. He noticed Charles, sat, talking to none other than Albert Mason. Mason noticed him at the same time, a smile spreading across his face. The photographer immediately made his way over towards him, turning mid-step to bid Charles a proper farewell. A small fond smile of his own escaped at the sight. Arthur ducked his head down hiding under the pretense of fixing his hat. When he glanced back up Hosea watched him with a knowing look in his eyes.

A treacherous warmth built underneath his collar, threatening to escape up towards his neck and face. Arthur cleared his throat, marching away from Hosea. He intercepted Mason midway, spinning him around by his shoulders then redirected the floundering photographer in the direction of the river instead. Damn knowing old man. Arthur fought the blush trying to creep up his face

**

“Thank you,” Mason tilted his head, confused at the sudden grateful statement. He’d been in the midst of telling Arthur about the letter he’d received from an acquaintance at the university interested in their photographs. Arthur wasn’t looking at him, instead his grey eyes were trained on the river in front of them. He continued, “For what you did back then. If you hadn’t gone and gotten Dutch and them… Who knows what woulda happened.”

“I am- I wasn’t,” the flustered photographer’s arms flew about and around the place attempting to pull a sentence together, “That is- That is not necessary, Arthur.” He didn’t know what prompted the sudden drastic shift in conversation, just that he wasn’t sure he deserved the gratitude.

“Yeah, it is,” Arthur pressed, “I realized I ain’t ever thanked you properly.” He grabbed hold of the other man’s shoulders making sure that Mason could see the intensity of his words swirling through the grey of his eyes, “I would have been dead without you Albert.”

This time it was Mason who initiated the kiss. A thrill of excitement ignited through Arthur's core and he was suddenly grateful that they’d chosen a secluded spot a bit ways down from camp. Still a flickering of worry persisted. What if someone followed them? The feel of Mason’s form pressing closer, aligning them from shoulder to thigh, erased any lingering reluctance and Arthur gave as good as he got. The photographer opened willingly when Arthur pressed against his bottom lip, allowing him to slip inside with little to no coaching needed. Mason let out a pleased hum that reverberated right through his own body down to his core.

The sound of the river and screaming cicadas faded out around them as Arthur’s senses singled onto the photographer in his arms. He didn’t feel the sun burn against the skin of his exposed neck after Mason accidentally toppled his hat while running long fingers through his hair, nor the cool breeze that had struck up in the late afternoon temperature.

He did feel the soft brush of fingers stroking through his hair and the surprisingly firm press of lean muscle that greeted his hand where it snuck its way under Mason’s shirt. The planes under his palms got softer the more he made his way to the sides, the skin fluttering where he brushed against more sensitive spots. He felt the corner of Mason’s lips twitch involuntarily where they pressed against his own.

Breaking apart he felt Mason’s gasping breath mixing with his own. Looking at the other man now he was reminded of the last time they had done this. Except now there were no Pinkertons lurking in the woods, no threat of guns aimed at their heads. This time there was no one to interrupt them, nothing to keep him from the photographer in front of him. Warmth bubbled in his chest as he leaned in to bring their mouths back together for another kiss. He coached Mason’s head in a tilt for a better fit. This new angle allowed him to explore more of the man in front of him, making it easier to trace the corners of his mouth mapping it out.

He used to believe that nothing could beat the thrill of robbing a train, the satisfaction gotten from a job running smoothly or the joy of holding a sizeable clip of money from a good take. Somehow Mason managed to surpass all three in one single moment. Arthur once confessed that he didn’t see a life without riding long treks horseback, but now knew he had unknowingly added a quirky photographer with a love for capturing wildlife on that list.

Maneuvering them underneath the shade of a tree beside a large boulder he thought about how that’s just fine by him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @cantdrownmydemons for helping me craft the ending and providing all the kissing scenes!  
> Also a thanks to @CrossbowCottage for pointing out a huge mistake!
> 
> I'm also on Tumblr!  
> if you'd like to ask or tell me something come on over
> 
>  
> 
> [lies-versus-ghosts](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lies-versus-ghosts)


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